The Forging of a Friendship
by Iridia
Summary: Gimli never thought he would call an elf one of his friends... until he met Legolas. (Not slash. Complete.)


Author's Note: This is a work of fan fiction; the characters and events portrayed therein are the property of J.R.R Tolkien and his family.  
  
Thanks goes to Meril, my beta, who pointed out errors I would otherwise certainly have missed.  
  
The Forging of a Friendship By Iridia  
  
I swing a pick-axe, chipping iron ore out of the solid rock. The rhythmic work reminds me of my youth, when I first learned this craft.  
  
When I was young, just beginning to study the great artistry of the Dwarves, this work would have seemed awkward to me. In my early years, my muscles would have ached, my hands would have blistered, the ore would have been hard to come by.  
  
But, as every young dwarf does, I learned; and after long, hard practice, I completed my first axe and was recognized as an adult. I have held numerous weapons since then--the one I am replacing now was shattered against the club of a mountain troll at Pelennor Fields--and I have forged many of them myself.  
  
It is good to be home, to feel the rock around me, to work hard and steadily. I do not really need to mine my own iron; I could buy enough quite easily; but after such a long time above the ground, I have come to miss the comforting closeness of an underground tunnel.  
  
I wonder where the elf Legolas is; perhaps he, also, has gone home, to see the woods he loves so much. He certainly deserves it.  
  
I did not always think so much of the elf; a friendship is a thing that must be practiced. When I first saw him, at the Council, neither of us had much skill in such a strange art. But, like a young dwarf learns to forge a weapon, we two learned to forge a friendship.  
  
At first, we only tolerated each other; the larger quest of the Ring was, too important for age-old grudges and daily annoyances to threaten to divide the Fellowship (need one take a bath every day? And what, pray, is the point of talking to trees?). I saw his elven pride, his frivolous attitude, and thought him petty; he saw my dwarven stubbornness, my stoicism, and found me just as irksome as I found him.  
  
There; I have enough ore now. The trip back to the forge-caves is long; and I remember the many days I spent tramping the surface at the side of an elf. Perhaps it was the need to keep the Fellowship whole, or the experience of being constantly in each other's company; but, somehow, we learned to tolerate each other. We developed a sort of ongoing competition of wit and deed, perhaps originally born of the frustrated desire to engage in a real duel, but continued simply because we both enjoyed it. We had a strange sort of camaraderie: A complaint could be a compliment; a jibe, encouragement; a competition, a means of keeping up the spirits. And it worked; we found ourselves united to fight against our enemies, even as we pretended to fight each other.  
  
I reach the forge and begin to heat the ore. The fires are kept hot by gigantic mechanical bellows, and the heat here is intense; but without the heat, the iron would be brittle and black, unfit to use for much more than cooking-pots.  
  
The heat, applied slowly, transforms the ore, as, what seems like long ago, adversity formed an unlikely friendship. I remember, now, Moria: At first, I was glad to be there, to see the wonders of the dwarves' most glorious kingdom; but here, too, the Shadow had touched, and we spent horror-filled days among the mingled bones of my kinsmen and their enemies. And Balin's tomb... ah, I cannot think of that without grief, even now.  
  
But in Moria I learned that the elf was a warrior just as worthy in battle as any dwarf. Certainly he was different: We dwarves concentrate on damaging our opponents, our well-made armor deflecting blows that would kill any other living creature, and would certainly break an elf in half, armor or no. Our weapons are heavy; our attacks, strong. The style is often ungraceful, but it is invariably deadly.  
  
For the elf, battle is almost--nay, it is--a dance. At first, I was incredulous that he wore no armor, thinking him dull-witted and perhaps suicidal for not protecting himself. But now, I know different: Legolas wears no armor because he needs none. Instead of the straightforward dwarven style, an elf fights almost daintily, dodging blows rather than taking them, improvising, deceiving the enemy, and always, always in motion.  
  
And then Gandalf fell; and Legolas and I were united once again in grief. For, while the old wizard's greatest love was the lore of Hobbits, he was a great friend to dwarves and elves alike.  
  
But the memories of what we saw after that are good; they are memories I return to often, and they always bring a smile with them. I will always treasure my first sight of the Lady Galadriel. It transformed me, as I now transform the soft iron into hard steel. And, at the sight of such unmatched beauty and wisdom, I finally understood Legolas's pride. For the dwarves, a ruler represents his people; and with such rulers, how could the elves not be proud?  
  
Between my forge-tongs is a newly-made bar of metal--steel, now, pure and bright. It is heavy and cool; and as I hold it, I can already visualize the blade forming.  
  
At Helm's Deep, Legolas and I fought in our first large battle. The odds--thousands to hundreds!--were impossible; but I did not mind that. To die in battle is a good death for a dwarven warrior; though, of course, I intended to separate a good many orcs from their heads before that happened.  
  
Legolas did not see it that way, I think. Though he trusted Aragorn, I do not know that he saw any hope at all for the battle; and so it fell to us--Aragorn and I--to encourage him.  
  
Who first thought of the contest, I don't know; it was, in any event, a natural outgrowth of the competition between us two. But, as long as Legolas called out numbers, and I matched them, we both knew the other was still alive. It kept our spirits up, kept us fighting.  
  
When we were separated and I thought him surely dead, I kept up the count--perhaps in his memory; perhaps to avenge him, I know not which. And, when I found he had survived after all--and the battle was won!--I disguised my joy by informing him that I had won our contest. Neither of us needed to say how glad we were that the other had survived--and, admittedly, we both had our pride.  
  
I hold tongs in one hand, hammer in the other, shaping the heated metal with repeated blows. As the forging proceeds, I use smaller and smaller hammers, each stage more delicate and careful. The blade is taking shape, just as this oddest of friendships did, all through that dangerous quest.  
  
On the Paths of the Dead, we were united once again, Legolas and I; this time, by fear. By now, I could see just how much Legolas hated going into such a dark place; and I liked it no more, with the feel of death and anger that hung about it. Neither of us would admit to being afraid; but both of us knew the other was, and both of us trusted Aragorn enough to follow him without question. There, in that dark path, we confirmed again our unspoken agreement to protect each other from whatever might come.  
  
We won our next battle only thanks to the assistance of the Dead whom Aragorn bound to his will; but the great danger of Mordor was still there. When finally it was decided to throw all our force into a diversion--a suicide mission, really--there was no more fear, either for Legolas or for me. Aye, I complained that I would die beside an elf; but we both knew I was honored. So, I knew, was Legolas.  
  
I have finished forging the blade; now I plunge it into cold water, where it is made hard, so that it will hold a good edge.  
  
We were in the midst of battle; and there were enemies all around us. I could see Legolas's arrows take down several before they closed with us, and he was forced to draw his knives. My own axe made short work of several orcs before I found myself faced with a mountain troll--a huge beast, as strong as he was dull--and his club. The first blow would have crushed even well-made dwarven armor, and I had not time to get away from it; so I held up my axe in a parry.  
  
The club shattered the axe; the blade went flying and I was left holding the haft. I believed I was going to die.  
  
And then I saw something flying past me and up onto the shoulders of the troll; and the flash of two sharp knives piercing its eyes and penetrating its small brain. It wavered, then fell over. The elf--Legolas!--jumped airily to the ground. Seeing I was disarmed, he pressed the hilt of one of his knives into my hand, and was gone.  
  
Our celebration when the Ring was destroyed, and Mordor defeated, saw us as firm friends, comrades-in-arms; and in that moment, when we realized the world was freed, there was no thought of race or family--only two warriors, rejoicing that the war was won. Once again, we were united; this time, in joy.  
  
I spend more time finishing the axe: Sharpening it, binding it to a strong handle, carving dwarven runes along the blade. It is a masterpiece, a thing of beauty that only a dwarf can make.  
  
But, unlike that of an axe, a friendship's forging is never finished. I have promised to come and see the woods Legolas loves, if he will come and see the caves I find so beautiful.  
  
Dwarves are long-lived; and elves are immortal: We have many, many years to spend together. I look forward to seeing him again. 


End file.
